


there in the drowning deep

by indigostohelit



Category: Narcos (TV), Narcos: Mexico (TV)
Genre: Airplane Sex, Bisexuality, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Self-Denial, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 20:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16668124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigostohelit/pseuds/indigostohelit
Summary: Amado flies Miguel and Isabella back to Guadalajara from their meetings in Medellín. In the back of Amado's airplane, Miguel considers what he wants.





	there in the drowning deep

**Author's Note:**

> You know who you are, you goddamn gremlins.
> 
> This was meant to be a prologue to post-show porn where previously-occurring threesomes were mentioned, and then turned into the actual threesomes, because Teresa Ruiz is the most beautiful woman in the world and I've lost control of my life. Characters based on portrayals in Narcos: Mexico, and not meant to represent actual persons living or dead. Translation Convention applies. I don't know shit about airplanes. Title is from “Harbor” by Vienna Teng.

It’s not a big plane. He fits Miguel and Isabella in the back, in between crates, and in the front seat puts precious cargo: some antiquities for Don Neto and Rafa, a couple of bottles of wine one of the Cali men lent him. Breakable things, delicate enough that he wants to keep an eye on them.

Not that he doesn’t want to keep an eye on Miguel and Isabella—but Miguel is more than capable of keeping an eye on himself. And he’s certainly been eyeing Isabella enough for the both of them.

The engine underneath him is purring like a jungle cat, deep and satisfied. Above the cloud cover, the night is flat and dark and punched through with stars. The moon is a fingernail swinging low in the east. Amado noses towards its left; the plane goes easily, light and smooth in the air, like one of the striped little fish from his childhood, slipping under rocks in the tide pools. This is always how flying feels, no matter how often he does it. Faster than the sunlight, and twice as free.

“All right back there?” he calls.

There’s the noise of scraping crates. “Fine,” says Isabella. “A little cramped.”

Amado grins, though they can’t see it. “You should try to get some sleep,” he says. “It’s a long way to Guadalajara.”

“If we can get any sleep,” says Miguel, his voice rough. Amado laughs, to let him know he’s heard him, and guns the engine to bring the plane up into a warm south wind.

He’d seen the two of them, out of his windshield. Standing together on the tarmac, Miguel’s coat around Isabella’s shoulders, hardly a breath between their bodies. No matter that half the Medellín cartel was a stone’s throw away, no matter that Amado himself has spent the past two months sneaking looks at Miguel’s slim silhouette whenever he gets the chance—he’d expected Miguel then and there to cup her face in his long-fingered hands, melt the distance between them. He’d hoped for it, even. Miguel is a godly man, yes—but he’s also a man who _wants_ things, who treats his desires the way other men treat hunger, thirst. They keep him alive; they can’t be ignored. If he were any other man, they might kill him. 

Miguel's not any other man. The future seems to open itself up before him, like a woman opening her mouth to be kissed. The usual rules of luck and fate don’t quite apply. Watching him, following him across Guadalajara and Jalisco and México, Amado feels like a man standing in the eye of a hurricane. People are dying in the wake of all this, yes. But Christ—that awe-inspiring stillness; that perfect balance, like yellow sky.

“You should make yourselves comfortable,” he says. “Move some crates around, give yourselves some room.”

“I think we’re all right,” says Isabella. Amado scoffs aloud and twists for a moment to look at them disbelievingly. She’s curled against Miguel, her breasts pressing into his side; he has an arm around her, his fingers resting on the shoulder of his coat. She's moving against him, trying to get comfortable. The broken yellow light in the backseat throws shadows over his face, her hips, the hollow of her neck.

It takes him a moment to find his voice. “If you say so,” he says, when he has it again.

“I do say so,” says Miguel. He isn’t looking at Amado. He’s looking at Isabella, and his eyes are black and glittering. Amado has to jerk his face away, stare blindly for a moment out into the star-pricked night.

He’s wanted Miguel for a long while. Isabella, not so much; he knows she’s beautiful, in an abstract sort of way, but plenty of women are beautiful, especially in this business. In any case, she’s always been decidedly off-limits: first at Falcón’s side, then at Miguel’s.

But now she’s in the back of his plane. Still with Miguel, but something’s changed, some switch flipped in Amado's hindbrain that he hadn’t meant to touch. Her breasts, gentle curves against Miguel’s body, soft and smooth and spilling out of her dress. The way she shifts her hips on his cargo floor, in little twitches, as if she’s asking Miguel to reach out and still her. As if she’s asking Miguel to pull her across his lap, and slide a hand between her thighs, and—

Jesus. Amado blinks, hard.

He doesn’t have Miguel’s desperation, true. But he’s not used to denying himself things he likes: fast planes, good clothes, beautiful women. Miguel has gotten him out of the habit of bearing difficulty with grace.

He doesn’t want grace much, though, these days. He just wants—

“You should make yourself comfortable, I mean it,” he says. “However’s best for you.” He pauses, and then—fuck it, fuck it—says, “You don’t need to stop touching, if you don’t want to.”

A silence, during which Amado can hear his heart hammering even over the rumble of the engine. He doesn’t think either Miguel or Isabella will pretend to misunderstand him. Still—

Miguel says, “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Amado.” His voice is rough.

Amado lets out a breath. “I won’t be uncomfortable,” he says. This is a lie. His pants, which were tight to begin with, are already noticeably tighter. “You should—have what you want, Miguel. Isabella.” He swallows hard. “You can just. Act like I’m not here.”

There’s silence from the back. 

Then Miguel says, quieter, “If I did want—what if I’d like you to be here?”

Amado feels his blood rush suddenly and debilitatingly to his cock. He says, his voice foreign to his own ears, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” says Miguel. “I—would be sure. Isabella—"

“You can do what you like,” says Isabella, “as long as you—Miguel, I've been asking for so  _long_ , when—” and then he hears a soft, wet noise. A groan, muffled. Hers, into his mouth.

“Miguel,” she says.

“Isabella,” says Miguel. “I shouldn’t—“

“He’s right,” says Isabella, soft. “You should have what you want.”

Miguel’s breaths, jagged and uncertain. Isabella says, so soft Amado can hardly hear it over the engine, “You want me.”

A brief silence. Then: “I want you,” Miguel agrees, low and rough. 

And then Isabella’s gasping, and he hears her say, triumphant, “Miguel,” and there’s a rustling—cloth against skin—and she says, “Oh,” and then, “Oh, my God,” and then she’s saying nothing at all, just _ah, ah, ah, ah_ , her voice rising, cracking.

“You’re so,” says Miguel. He sounds hoarse. “Isabella, you’re so beautiful. I want to—put my mouth everywhere on you.”

“You should,” Isabella gasps, “you should, you can, you can do anything you—how long have you wanted—"

“Ages,” Miguel says, “forever,” and he must do something then, because Isabella nearly screams, and Amado realizes his fists are clenched where they’re resting on the dashboard, his knuckles white.

“Miguel,” she says, “what—oh, fuck, Jesus Christ—what are you waiting for?” The slap of skin against wood. “Fuck me, come on, I’m so wet—”

“Just a little longer,” says Miguel, his voice thick, tense with concentration. “I’m getting you ready for me.”

“I’m ready,” says Isabella, “I’m ready now, I’ve been ready for— _years_ , Miguel, you fucking—just do it, I want to feel you inside me—"

“Not yet,” says Miguel. He sounds—wild, desperate. “Just wait. You can be patient, sweetheart.“ Amado can hear wet, slick noises, Isabella’s little broken moans muffled against what must be Miguel’s mouth. “Come on. For me, just for me, I want to hear you—" and then a sharp sound from Isabella, high-pitched and startled, and then her harsh, heavy panting.

“Amado,” says Miguel. “Amado, I don’t have—"

Amado is moving before Miguel can finish the sentence, fumbling in his jacket pocket, twisting to press a condom into Miguel’s outstretched hand. Behind him, he can see Isabella half-collapsed, propped against a crate, one of her knees hitched up. The dim light is gleaming on the wetness between her legs, a line of it streaked down her thigh.

Amado realizes his mouth is open. He shuts it hastily, and looks at Miguel. Miguel, who’s watching him with his eyes dark and his nostrils flared. Miguel, whose hand he’s still clasping, the condom pressed between their palms.

“Miguel,” he says, weakly, and snatches his hand away. Or tries to: Miguel’s other hand is there, suddenly, trapping him. Amado tries to say something, and finds he can’t. Miguel’s skin is warm and paper-dry.

“Thank you,” Miguel says, and skates his fingers, just lightly, across the inside of Amado’s wrist.

He lets go. Amado inhales, shakily.

“Anything you want,” he says.

Miguel smiles at him, the corners of his eyes folding up into shadow. “I know,” he says, and turns away.

Amado stares through the windshield, into the darkness. It doesn’t help; he can hear, behind him, Isabella’s noises, low and urgent. Miguel’s ragged breath. He must be—pushing inside her, now, his cock sliding in deep. How she must feel, the soft heat of her, her breasts against him. He might be cupping one of them in his hands, rubbing at her nipple; might be holding her ass, her delicate waist, might be pressing bruises into her shoulders. Might have his hands around her neck, his thumb resting in the hollow of her throat. Her eyes dark, her red lips open for him.

He can hear, now, a rhythmic thumping against one of the crates. He’s fucking her, then. Pushing up into her. She’s begging him, now, _please, please, please_ , her voice raw with want—how well he must be fucking her, Amado thinks, his nails digging into his palms. How good it must be to have Miguel inside you, touching you, for there to be no part of you that he can’t reach into and make his own. How good for Miguel to want you so badly—what else could anyone ask for, beyond Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo adding you to the list of things he needs.

Amado undoes the button on his pants, lets his legs sprawl open and rubs blindly against his cock. He’s not going to get off here, not now, he’s not stupid, but he can’t bear listening to this—to Isabella’s cut-off, heartfelt noises, to the low wet sounds of Miguel giving her exactly what she needs—without some relief. Just palming himself, just a little, just to take the edge off. God, if he were in the backseat with them—

If he were in the backseat with them, Miguel would put his hand on his cock, just like this, while he fucked her. He would work Amado, just like this, just how Amado likes it—Amado can picture the look on his face, the look that must be there now as he fucks up into Isabella, the look he’s seen a hundred times on Miguel’s face in boardrooms, in dope fields, in Nicaragua. Seeing something he wants; making a plan to take it.

“Isabella,” Miguel says, choked. The thumping is getting faster, as if he can’t help himself. Amado wants, so badly, to turn and see it: Miguel’s hair flopping over his forehead, Isabella’s hips moving on him. The look on his face, in his eyes. For one stolen, shuddering minute, a loss of control.

Isabella cries out again. There’s one more thump—two—and then Miguel groans, low and long, as much relief as pleasure. He must have been—waiting for her, holding himself off, letting himself thrust inside her just as much as he could bear, his thumb working on her clit—

Amado eases his hand off his cock, gulps a lungful of air. He’s too close.

Another slick noise: Miguel pulling out. Isabella makes a soft, unhappy sound. Amado hears the sound of a kiss, then another; then Miguel’s moving away. Moving towards him.

“I said you shouldn’t be uncomfortable,” he says, low, into Amado’s ear.

“I’ll,” says Amado. He can’t bear to turn and look at him. To see whatever’s in Miguel’s eyes. “I can take care of myself when we land.”

Miguel hums consideringly. “You don’t want someone else to take care of you?”

Amado has to close his eyes at that. “Later,” he says. “I - later.”

“Whatever you say,” says Miguel, soft, amused. Indulgent. He pauses, his breath warm on Amado’s cheek. “Amado?”

“Yes?” says Amado.

“Thank you,” says Miguel, and kisses him on the temple. Amado feels his eyelashes brush his skin.

Amado swallows hard. “Get some sleep,” he says. “You’ll be back in Guadalajara by morning.”

“I know,” Miguel says. His hand lands, soft and light, on the back of Amado’s neck. He squeezes, very lightly. “My pilot.”

Then he’s gone, crates shifting as he settles into the back. Next to him, Isabella’s breath is already slow and regular.

Amado stares through the windshield. There’s a good strong trade-wind coming up from the water, carrying them west towards Panama. The moon is gleaming in the corner of his eye, a slim line of light tipped easily over onto her back. Below him, the ocean is one with the sky, a great darkness lit only by the stars and the blinking of the lights at his wings. Endless, faceless; without questions, without laws. His own country. 

Him and his little plane, and his precious cargo, and the wind at his back. He can steer them safely home. 


End file.
